Page 43 of When We Believed in Mermaids

“You’re a doctor.”

“Yes. ER in Santa Cruz.”

“ER?”

“Emergency room.”

“Ah.” He sips his beer and watches a family of tourists settling on a row of seats, and I watch too. The mom is hassled, directing her three kids to put their hats back on, to stop tossing a ball among them, to sit down and stop leaning over the rail. The dad is bent over his phone. “That would account for your speed.” He makes a soft sound, looks at me. “One moment you were standing beside me, and the next you were in the water.”

“Here’s the thing—it wasn’t really that sudden. I was worried about those boys, and you’ll notice I was in place when one fell.” I smooth a hand over my thigh, which feels restless. “I’m a surfer, and I was a lifeguard, and you see the injuries in the ER all the time...so while all of you were enjoying the spectacle of youth and energy, I was imagining all the things that could go wrong.”

For a moment, he looks at me, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. “Will he be all right, that boy?”

“I don’t know. He hit his head pretty damn hard.”

“Does it make you afraid, knowing what you know? Stop you from doing things?”

I settle sideways so I can look at him more easily, leaning my back against the railing. “Not physical things.”

His eyes glitter. “What things, then, hmm?”

I look away, over his shoulder, thinking of my rules about men, my lack of travel, the empty spaces in my life, and suddenly feel a welter of tears at the back of my throat, which is not me at all. I feign nonchalance with a one-shoulder shrug. “I already knew bad things could happen.”

“Ah, the earthquake, yes?”

“Among other things.”

“Is that what led you to the emergency room?”

“Maybe? Probably.” I pick at the label of my beer. “I always wanted to study science in some way, but that was a big event.”

He touches my forearm with one finger. “Were you injured?”

“Scratches and bruises. Nothing much.” I feel suddenly breathless at the pressure of so many memories rising up after so long. My sister, Dylan, the earthquake. I lift a hand. “Enough. Your turn, Señor Velez. I’ve been talking about myself all day.”

He smiles. The wind blows his hair over his forehead. He’s such a masculine man. European, so polished, but so very male. His big hands. His broad shoulders. His strong nose and intelligent brow. “I am not as interesting as you are.”

“That is not true.” My body is starting to relax a little after the adrenaline rush. “Tell me why you really came to New Zealand.”

“Not just to visit?”

I shake my head, go with a gut feeling. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re right.” He looks out toward the horizon, back to me. “A very good friend of mine, one of my oldest friends, killed himself.”

Damn. The lake of my memories ripples, threatens to spill. A flash of Dylan’s dead, still self washes out of the lake, but I’m a master at ridding myself of those images. I sit up straight, taking refuge in my professional training. “Javier, I’m so sorry.” In compassion, I wrap my hand around his. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

He turns his palm upward, captures my hand close. “We had been friends since we were small. Very small. I felt I should have seen. Done...something.” His face darkens as he focuses on the horizon. “I just...” He sighs. “After, I found it difficult to take up my work, and Miguel invited me to come here for a time.” He brushes his thumb over my fingernail.

“Suicide is especially difficult for survivors,” I say, and it’s too much my ER voice. I force myself to be more human. Personal. “You must miss him terribly.”

“I keep wishing for it to make sense.”

“It doesn’t, always.”

“I suppose you see it often, in your work.” He gives me a sideways look, still holding my hand.

I swallow back another confession. “Yes.”